


what use our work

by Mithlomi



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Fluffy Angst, angsty fluff, the boys being brothers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-05 09:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1813732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithlomi/pseuds/Mithlomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of reflections on life, loss and love in the Musketeers family.</p><p>Chapter 4- Athos often imagined her with a babe in her arms</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Constance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1- Constance awakes to find her lover shaking, broken and holding their baby daughter tight against his chest...

She has not heard from him in four days.

It's not, in fact, the longest they have spent apart since their marriage (she remembers the month he spent in Spain while she was pregnant with unease), but she will always worry, whether she wants to or not, no matter his reassurances as he presses a soft kiss to their daughter's forehead and another to her lips. He tells her he'll miss her every minute they're apart but he'll return to his girls soon. How would he ever leave them?

And then he smiles, that warm, bright, infectious smile that makes him look so young and is impossible to resist. It achieves it's purpose, every time, lifting her already-aching heart as she returns with a small smile of her own. She has faith in him, in all of them, his brothers. In their skill, their abilities. But more than that, she has faith in their trust in each other. No one will be left behind, not while they still draw breath.

Four days is nothing to worry about. More often than not, they return to her,with ringing laughter and hungry stomachs and another story to add to regale her with as d'Artagnan bounces their daughter in his arms before one of the others insists on having their turn with their niece.

Porthos is already Marie's favourite... although Aramis insists that it's him.

It's then, when the waiting and aching and the worry is finally over, that she realises it's all worth it if this is what she gets to claim as her own...

She smiles to herself but her wandering mind is brought back to the present as she hears Marie fussing in her cot. She carefully folds up the dress she is mending for a newly-acquired client and moves to her daughter's side, still awestruck by how beautiful she is, ten tiny fingers and bright blue eyes, so warm, so real.

She grins as she picks up the babe before she really starts to wail, relishing the weight of her in her arms. "Yes, yes I know, my love. You're hungry..."

\----------------

She must have been more tired than she thought; she does not hear him enter, does not hear his tread on the stair nor the scrape of the door, nor even his approach to Marie's crib. It was only when she feels him sit on the bed that she bolts upright, hand already reaching for the sword she keeps by the bed until she recognises his silouette, the sweep of his cape, even in the dim moonlight.

"d'Artagnan?" she whispers, still lost in sleep.

He has his back to her. He does not respond, does not even acknowledge that he has heard. He stares down at his arms and Constance shifts towards him slowly to see that he has his sleeping daughter held delicately against his chest, as if he might break her. One hand rests on top of the soft blanket she is wrapped in. It is shaking.

She finally lifts her head to study his face and gasps. There's a yellowing bruise on his cheek, a cut to his lip and a trail of dried blood that his trickled from his hairline. He's so still, a glazed look in his eyes as he stares with parted lips at Marie. He trails a finger lightly over her cheek...

She reaches out her hand, grazing lightly over his roughly stubbled jaw. She's scared; she's never seen him like this and if this is the state of his face then how does the rest of him fare.

"d'Artagnan, please..."

"I've made them promise." His voice is harsh, rough with disuse, a long night's ride, lack of water. "I knew they would but I made them promise."

She draws herself closer, curling around, a hand on the back of his neck, brow furrowed and eyes wide. She can feel it; the tension in his muscles, the rising torrent in his soul. She's here...

"Should... should anything happen to me, they'll look after you both. They'll keep you safe." He holds Marie closer and the little girl shifts in her sleep, oblivious to her father's torment.

"d'Artagnan." Her voice is soft in his ear as her hand brushes through his matted hair. "What's wrong?"

For the first time since he returned, he looks at her. His brown eyes are wide, full of emotion that she cannot find a name for. Fear? Anger? Sadness? Perhaps even he doesn't know. He looks younger than ever.

He swallows around the lump in his throat and when he starts talking he cannot stop. "We were attacked. On the road back to Paris. English mecenaries. It was... so sudden, we had no idea. Aramis..." His face falls and her hand brushes against his cheek as she watches his eyes fill with tears.

"He pushed me out of the way. Just as they fired. There's a shot in his chest, Constance, and they don't know if he'll..."

His breathing is ragged, torn and he closes his eyes to try to stop tears that fall unbidden to his cheeks. Her hands tangle in his hair as her own sob escapes her lips at the thought of Aramis, cold and pale, at the thought that it could have been _him_ and she leans forward to rest her forehead against his temple. Her free hand comes up to rest against the one that cradles their baby daughter as his arm tangles about her waist, pulling her tight against him.

And she knows why she's not with them, despite the fact that she's more than certain that Athos or Porthos told him to go. He's here because he needs his family close. He needs to see them, to feel them, the warmth of his daughter in his arms and the feel of his wife's beating heart.

They stay perfectly still for the longest of moments, calming their racing hearts, their frayed nerves and relishing the feel of each other, memorising each breath, each curve, each little sound their daughter makes. Marie stirs suddenly and d'Artagnan moves away on instinct, standing to rock his daughter back to sleep, mumbling nonsense under his breath.

Aramis always knew how to get her to sleep...

"You should go be with them," she murmurs as she stands, taking Marie from his shaking arms.

He shakes his head. "No. They will... tell me if anything changes. And I needed to see you." Carefully, as to avoid the babe, he takes her face in his hands and brings her lips to his, kissing her long and slow, full of every single emotion he cannot hide.

"I'm sorry..." he breathes as he pulls away, resting his forehead to hers.

"What for?" she asks, although she already knows the answer.

"For this life."

"This life?" Finally, after what feels like the longest time, she smiles, soft and light. "The man I love kisses me and holds me tight while our sleeping daughter rests in my arms. What do I have to be sorry for?"

He takes her hand, doesn't let go. "But what if he was not here? What if, despite it being his worst fear, he could not be here for you or our child? What if he was taken away? What if _you_ were taken from _him_ while he is away, when honour and duty seperates him from his family?"

His grip on her waist tightens and his gaze drifts to Marie. His voice is so soft she barely hears his broken whisper. "Is that really what he wants?"

She lifts his chin, forces him to meet his gaze. "Yes. Because that is who he is. Brave and honourable and good. A man who loves his brothers, will do anything for them, just as they will for him. A man who will always come back to his family, no matter what. A man who will protect them, even... even if he cannot be here to do it himself. That is the man I love."

He thinks, just for a moment, before the barest hint of a smile curls his lips. He lifts his hand to bring her palm to his lips.

"The man you love would not be the same without the kindest and bravest woman on Earth by his side..."

She nods, her smile teasing. "I am certain of it." Slowly, she lifts her head. "Now go. Be with him. Send him all my love and all my prayers. If he laughs at that thought, you must promise me you will slap him."

It does the trick for her husband's laughter rings throughout the dark room. "Thank you," he whispers against her lips as he kisses her again. He pulls away to press his lips to his daughter's head.

"We shall be here when you return."

His smile is beautiful. "I know..."


	2. Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2\. Aramis recovers

He does not remember much of his recovery. It was hot, and the brief moments of consciousness afforded him nothing but burning pain in his chest and blinding light in his eyes. He can just remember a large, cool hand on his forehead, soft fingers gripping his own, the crying of a babe, a desperate plea for him to wake up...

Eventually, he does. Opens his eye and waits for the agony. It does not come. He blinks, clears the haze from his vision and groans. The young Gascon cries his name and he hears a chair crash to the floor before the boy's anxious face is in sight, worry creasing his brow. It is a look that does not suit him.

He coughs then, and that's when it does hurt, a ragged tear in his chest. Very slowly, events come back to him. d'Artagnan's sword clashed with the Spaniard in front of him and he did not see the shooter in the tree line. He does not remember thinking- it was instinct, to move, to push the boy out of the way. It stings more than anything when it pierces his chest, blood thick as he pulls his fingers away and Porthos calls his name as he catches him from falling to the floor.

He was too slow. Then it went black.

The fit subsides and Athos is there, water in hand, and he is grateful, raising shaking hands and heavy limbs to help guide the glance to his lips. Athos reminds him to be slow but the cold liquid is like heaven on his raw throat and he sighs as he falls back to the pillow, that small effort exhausting him already.

As if suddenly remembering, he looks down to see the red stained bandaged on his chest. He raises his eyes to his brothers. He realises Porthos has not said a word, is simply glaring at him, as if he might disappear.

Then he smiles. "I do hope it was none of you who patched me up..."

Then tension dissipates instantly. He watches the Gascon's head fall forward as he attempts to hide his relief, sees the knowing curl to Athos lip and falls into a restful sleep with Porthos' booming laughter in his ears.

\-------------

It is a few days later when Constance arrives with a smile and his little niece in her arms. She brings a basket of warm bread and soft cheese and fresh fruit and it's so deliciously mouthwatering he realises how little he has eaten over the last few days.

It does not hurt so much as he laughs now and he teases as he did before, as Constance speaks of Marie, of late nights and Gascon farmboys who fall asleep with baby daughters in their arms because they have been up all night. She speaks of the small business she has developed, work as a seamstress and, on occasion, a dressmaker. She speaks of new friends and new mothers and looks at Marie with such utter joy in her eyes that Aramis' heart soars. She is so very happy and the child is so very loved that he cannot be more pleased for his friends. No one deserves happiness more than her.

"Motherhood suits you, Constance."

She blushes a lovely pink and smiles, even as she raises a brow. "You have mentioned that before. Many times, in fact."

"It is not untrue..."

He means it every time, but he knows he repeats himself for another reason. Because he cannot tell mother of his own child how beautiful she looks, how her smile warms his heart as she kisses the boy's cheek, how he aches to hold the child himself...

He would be a good father. He will allow himself that.

He realises he has been quiet for a while and Constance is staring at him strangely before she asks if he wants to hold Marie. How she does it, he will never know, but it is as if she can read his thoughts. He has not told anyone about his love, about his child, save for Athos; he will not endanger them with the knowledge.

So he simply nods, never passing on the opportunity to watch his niece giggle and flail in his arms and he sings softly as Marie's eyes flutter closed.

"I wanted to thank you..."

He looks up suddenly, to find that steely determination they are all so familiar with on her face, only softened by the gratitude in her eyes. 

"For... for saving his life." He watches her take a breath, finding her courage, because the mere thought of her husband being taken from her is enough to break her heart

"Constance. You do not need..."

She stands suddenly and moves over to him, taking his hand. "No, I do. Please. Let me say this. Because you saved my life that day as well. If something had happened, if Marie had to grow up without her father, if I had to be without him, I..." She cuts herself off and drops her gaze, breath caught in her throat.

"Look at me, Constance." Her eyes are shining as she meets his request.

"We shall never let anything happen to him." He means every word. "We know that he would lay down his life for any of us if he had to, but we are not foolish. He is a husband and a father. His life comes first..."

"Aramis..."

"It is the truth, Constance. But it is no matter; my actions that day... I would have done the same for any of them. I would do the same for you. You are my family..."

He feels a slow smile grow as he blinks, as if only just realising his own words. His family. All of them, even the little bundle in his arm. He has spoken them before but never have they carried so much meaning.

A gentle hand is placed on his cheek. "You are the best of men, Aramis."

He takes the opportunity. "I shall remember you said that the next time you wish to scold me."

She laughs and he feels his heart beat a little stronger once again.

It is two days later, when he is well enough for parade once more, that he meets the Queen's soft gaze. He sees her relax at the sight of him, obviously having heard of his injuries and now assured of his recovery; he returns her ever-so-slight smile. The little boy in her arms flails and her arms tighten around him as she presses a kiss to his head, eyes never leaving his.

His family.

There is nothing he would not do for his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I wasn't going to let him die. Apologies for the lack of Anne. I desperately wanted to get her in but I could find her voice...


	3. Porthos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He promised she would be safe...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure of this chapter. I found Porthos really hard to write. Which I suppose is good because it made me practice writing when it wasn't so easy. I don't know. See what you think...
> 
> Apologies for very weak plot. It's never my strong suit but hopefully you'll see that isn't the point.
> 
> And lots of love to isloremipsumafteral for all her help with this chapter!

He growls under his breath.

They are fighting, shouting, screaming at each other. Voices raised, harsh and broken. He doesn't blame them. He cannot even begin to imagine what they are going through...

Marie is gone. Taken. Constance attacked in her own home, beaten and left unconcious while her daughter is stolen from her. d'Artagnan arrives home to a barely concious wife and an empty crib and the cry that tears from him is almost too much for any of them to bare...

And now they fight, as he waits in the courtyard below. They are not angry with each, he knows, even if he wants to tear them apart and calm them down. They are only so completely terrified that neither have any idea what else to do.

He hears d'Artagnan cry out, full of rage and pain. The smash of glass. Constance's voice breaking as the dam bursts and she screams. They it is quiet, her sobs muffled against d'Artagnan's chest as he holds her, whispers in her ear.

He stalks away, unable to take it any longer. His jaw is set, eyes dark, nostrils flared as he disappears into the night.

Someone has attacked his family. Someone has dared to hurt them, has stolen one of his own. A child. A baby.

He's accepted the fact he'll never have children of his own. But Marie is precious to him. More than he ever knew. So tiny, so full of life, of potential of hope. He cannot bare to think that he will never hold her again, so small in his palms as she stares up at him with bright blue eyes...

He swore to them both. Nothing will hurt her as long as he lived. He intends to keep that promise. Because there have been too many he could not. Children stolen from the streets, friends forced into unspeakable things, Flea, Charon... Aramis...

He's often wondered if it's to do with his size. That he seems to simply fill the role without question. Protector. Guardian. He does not begrudge the title; he will do all he can to be worthy of it. He'll use his size, his strength, all that he has been blessed with to his advantage, to help those that need him.

And perhaps that is what drives him too. Being needed. Too often he has been alone, too often he's been lost. Before the Court, before the Musketeers. He's easy to brush aside, a lonely orphan, the child of a slave, no less. Any place he felt he belonged surely would need a reason for him to stay...

It's not until later, much much later, that he realises the truth. In a tavern full of theives and brigands of all places. When he's accused of a theft he did not commit, and two men rush to his side. Later, a third voice would join in his defence, another sword raised in his honour.

When those he protects rush to protect him.

That is when he knows he has found his place, where he belongs without reasoning, without explanation. They are his friends, his brothers...

And he will not let them suffer.

\----------

Constance had fought. Hard. There was blood under her fingernails when they arrived- he imagines some derserving bastard will carry the scars of her rage for the rest of his life. He thinks he can see her, wild and feral; a mother trying to protect her child could be deadly...

He thinks he knows that from experience but he can barely remember...

But the scrap of dark cloth that she had torn from the cloak was, at the very least, something to start. Two men, she says. Tall and strong. She did not recogise them but they knew exactly what they were looking for, knew that she would be there; they knew that she would fight.

This is specific. This is someone who knows them. Wanted to cause pain to all of them.

Aramis, still recovering, stays with a sleeping Constance. Athos takes d'Artagnan, no one trusting him to be alone with that haunted gaze in his eyes. They make their way to the garrison, for Treville's advice, desperate for something, anything, the smallest hint of hope.

Porthos heads to the Court.

The scent is still so familiar he doesn't flinch away. He remembers every detail, every inch, could still naviagte the halls, the allyways, the nooks and crannies without much thought. But it feels like a whole other life now. It's too far to say he's a different person but sometimes he wonders if he'll ever be able to bring both sides together.

They'd never understand this. Would they?

Flea greets him with a grin but her teasing falls quiet on her lips as he recognises his murderous expression. He explains and she nods. Of course she'll help.

"This can't keep happening," he tells her, all of a sudden and out of the blue as she forces him to eat. "I can't keep losing people..." He can talk to her. She does not like his new world, and there is no one he knows as honest as Flea.

"That is what life is, Porthos." There's no bitterness in her voice; it is a simple fact for her.

He meets her gaze, looks her dead in the eye. "I don't believe that..."

She smiles and he doesn't quite understand. "I know you don't..."

\------

One of Flea's boys find what they're looking for. A babe crying in a room above a tavern, a woman spotted by the window and two men in black who have been their for the past two nights.

The boy leads him there. He should tell the others, but the thought of Marie with these men a second longer than she has to be is enough to drive him mad. Leaving Constance too long, knowing she was in danger, was bad enough...

With one threatening stare, the innkeep confirms the presence of the kidnappers. He snarls, teeth bared, sword drawn.

He promised. Marie will not suffer as he did. She will not have to fight to find her family. She will always know where she belongs.

He kicks down the door...

Marie is not there.

The blow is harsh as it connects with the man's face, sending him sprawling to the floor.

"She's taken the child already."

"Who?"

"The woman who hired us..."

"Give me a name!" He knows it already.

"Milady de Winter."


	4. Athos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's often imagined her with a babe in her arms...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally updating this! Again, not sure about this one. Moody Athos is not my specialilty so I hope I've done him justice.
> 
> And a warning- I can't figure out if Milady is OOC or just confronted with a situation she would normally find herself in. I sincerely hope it's the latter...

It haunted his dreams. Such an image as this. Anne, soft and pale in the candlelight, small smile gracing her ruby lips, and a babe in her arms.

Their babe. Small and perfect. Downy locks upon her head, a tiny palm curled around her finger as the child slept peacefully against her mother's breast. New beginnings. A fresh start. For both of them...

But no matter how beautiful she looks... this is not their child. This is not their life.

She has stolen it. As only she can do. For she knows nothing else. It is not the first time he has felt pity for his wife. No, it crept up on him in the middle of the night as he grasped for another bottle and gulped it down. He would convince himself she was evil; it was the only way he could face himself, face what he did...

She has stolen a child from her mother. From her father. From two of his dear friends...

And yet all he feels is sorrow. Pity.

As if she needs another reason to hate him.

He thinks of Constance then. Perhaps it will aid him. The look of pure hatred contorting her pretty face, and all aimed squarely at him. Her target could not be found so he would accept her blame, her anger... she was right to be so. 

_"It was her, wasn't it? Your wife..."_

_She had practically snarled, gritted teeth and dark gaze as she started towards him. He would let her unleash her pain, her anguish and for a moment, no one stopped her as she beat against his chest, screaming, sobbing, shaking, until d'Artagnan pulled her into his arms, whispered nonsense against her hair. Empty, hollow words._

_The boy looked half dead. And every cry that was torn from his wife's lips, every moment without his daughter in his arms drained him more and more..._

For a moment, it drives him, urges him forward. "Stop this, Anne. Give her to me..."

She ignores him; perhaps, even, does not hear him speak at all. For Marie gives a soft gurgle at his sudden disturbance of the silence, flailing tiny limbs in discomfort. Anne is quick; she shushes the babe and rocks her gently, tenderly.

Slowly, she turns and he stops. Flinches. For the look of utter affection in her gaze is almost too much to bare.

She's crying...

"She's so beautiful." Her voice is a broken whisper, so unlike anything he has heard from her in a long time.

_Six years._

He cannot stop himself. He takes a careful step forward and she does not move, simply stands, holds the babe's clenched fist in her gloved hand. For her part, Marie is quiet, and he is thankful that she is too young to remember.

Because, for the briefest of minutes, he indulges his fantasy. He gently brushes his hand over the girl's delicate head. His palm curls around Anne's arm, tender, soft and she does not flinch. There is silence, no sound save for the thumping of his heart, and he gazes down at the sleeping babe as if she were his own. As if this were his family.

There's peace then. A calm settling over the raging torrent of his mind.

He smiles. Beautiful and genuine. And nobody can see.

"They have everything..."

The moment has passed. He does not move. Even as she continues, her voice barely a murmur.

"They have everything we desired."

Finally, after what feels like forever, she looks up and he can see her beautiful green eyes shining in the dim light.

He eventually finds his voice once more. "They deserve it."

She finishes it for him. "... and we do not."

Silence once more. For it is no revealation to either of them. Merely a simple fact.

"I will take her home, Anne." His arms slip carefully between her and the child. She does nothing, does not try to fight, simply lets her arms fall to her sides.

She looks so small now.

"I am sorry..."

He does not look away from Marie. He does not trust himself.

"They will not believe you. Neither will they care."

"Do you?"

One last look. That is all he will allow himself. She is shaking, wide-eyed gaze and clenched fists. She is pleading. She is innocent.

He does not answer.

For the second time, he turns from her and walks away.


End file.
